


Gallifrey Records: First Times, Second Verse

by cereal, gallifreyburning



Series: Gallifrey Records [9]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-26
Updated: 2013-10-26
Packaged: 2017-12-30 13:45:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1019327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cereal/pseuds/cereal, https://archiveofourown.org/users/gallifreyburning/pseuds/gallifreyburning
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-"Girl In the Fireplace Bootleg", the Doctor and Rose take it slow as they reconstruct their relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

  


**The First Time Jackie Spoke with the Doctor Again**

Jackie Tyler has never been the sort of woman who would stalk the Doctor.

Sure, she owns a few of his earlier albums. Bought those before she ever met the man, although everyone bought them, so it wasn’t as if she listened to the Scarf Album or the Cricket Album any more than she listened to The Dead Kennedys or Patti Smith. And after Rose got tangled up with the Doctor, Jackie listened because it was her _job_ — she was Rose’s manager, after all.

And this morning, as she sits in the corner of the coffee shop around the corner from the Doctor’s flat, Jackie is certainly not stalking the Doctor.

With her floppy hat and her enormous sunglasses, her eyes glued to the door as she takes small sips from her mug, Jackie is on the hunt.

Four skinny vanilla almond lattes in, the little bell above the door jingles, and here he comes: the Doctor, wearing the same clothes he’d had on when he showed up on her doorstep last night. He’s showered and shaved, at least, and she feels a twinge of smug satisfaction, because there’s a faint bruise on his angular cheekbone.

He spends a while at the counter, chatting with the barista and waiting for his order. While he’s got his back to her, Jackie takes off her floppy hat, carefully arranges it on her crossed knee, and pulls her sunglasses up to rest on the crown of her head.

The Doctor finally turns around, mug of tea in one hand and food in the other. He’s got six banana muffins balanced precariously on a tiny plate, and when Jackie says, “Oi, you plum!” five of the muffins plop directly onto the ground.

He stares at her, jaw slack and she can see it, the wheels in his brain turning as he gauges his odds of a clean getaway. His gaze flickers to the muffins on the floor, to the exit, back to her table. “Jackie.”

“If you make a move for that door, this is only going to get more embarrassing for you.” She waves her latte at him, makes a vague gesture toward the unoccupied chair at her table. “So just sit down, hmm?”

He moves like a cornered stag, wary and slow, scenting the air for possible avenues of escape. Or in this case, scenting Jackie’s liberal application of Chanel No. 5. He picks up the ruined muffins from the floor and puts them in the bin with an unhappy frown before bringing his tea and last remaining muffin to Jackie’s table.

“How did you know I’d come here?” he asks, folding his hands in his lap. The tea steams enticingly, the lone surviving muffin sits delectably on its plate, and he doesn’t touch either of them.

 _Breaking bread with your enemy,_ Jackie thinks, narrowing her eyes.

“I know where you live, don’t I? Rose tells me things, doesn’t she? Like the name of the place that serves your favorite banana muffins. You just got in last night, Rose is the one who does the shopping, and she’s been with me this last week. Your cupboards are bare, Doctor. You were bound to stick your head out sometime.”

“Ah. Clever.”

“More so than people generally give me credit for,” Jackie retorts. “You came onto my turf last night, I’m here to repay the favor.”

He clears his throat and glances around to make sure they aren’t being noticed. Leaning forward, he asks with a low voice, “Clever lady like you doesn’t just make a trip across London to deal out death glares. So let’s have it.” In a sudden movement, he shakes his head, holds up his hands, fingers wiggling. “Wait, no, no, no, let me guess! ‘Stay away from my daughter.’ Or ‘If you come around again, I’ll make sure you don’t live to regret it.’ Even better, ‘I have a shotgun and I’m not afraid to use it.’”

It’s odd, because the Doctor isn’t mocking or being derisive — not overtly so, at least — he’s bright and curious, as though he’s on some sort of gameshow, and if he guesses the correct phrase he’s going to win the car.

 _Sometimes,_ Jackie thinks, _he’s so bizarre, he hardly seems human._

“I don’t like guns,” she says, crossing her arms and leaning back in her chair. _Tap tap tap_ goes the toe of her high-heeled shoe on the metal pole of the table. “Although if you plan on getting my daughter into a situation that requires me to obtain a shotgun, I might well just strangle you with my bare hands.”

He clears his throat again and the flash of bright enthusiasm drains from his face. “Right, no, I’ve no intentions of getting Rose into any shotgun-provoking situations, Jackie. You can head right back to your side of town, rest assured that —”

“You hurt her,” Jackie interrupts. She’s furious, although the anger has had long enough to sit, it’s turned cold and fierce and focused. “She can’t even bring herself to speak about it, but Rose has been crying onto my shoulder for the last five days, because of whatever _you_ did.”

He stares at her, his expression as blank as a piece of paper. He’s gone into his media mode; Jackie’s worked with him long enough to know. This is the face he puts on when reporters ask questions he doesn’t like and doesn’t intend to answer. But she also knows him well enough to read his eyes — large and brown and expressive.

Regret. Most definitely, right there alongside anger.

“I don’t expect you to turn back time, Doctor — there are limits to what even you can do, in spite of that enormous ego of yours. But I will say this once, and only once: if you ever, ever hurt my daughter like that again, I will do everything within my power to end you. Professionally and personally. Are we clear?”

Jackie isn’t sure what she expects — arguments or yelling or defensiveness — but she gets a curt, sharp nod. “Never again.”

Maintaining eye contact, she stands up. “Good.”

Without another word, she picks up the last banana muffin from his plate and walks out of the café with it.

**The First Time They Went on a Date Again**

Initially she thinks he’s just pouncing on an opportunity. Her mum had announced she was leaving town that morning and six hours later, the Doctor’s asking her on a date. A first date. Well, a second first date.

She’d been waiting for this, more than a little bit, if she’s honest. It’s been two weeks and there’d been plenty of lunches at chippies, a few early morning coffees, even some impromptu bowling, but nothing they’d put a label on. Nothing that said there were romantic intentions or couple intentions or did you always lick your lips this much or are you doing this on purpose? intentions.

Just the Doctor and Rose and an ocean of platonic gestures.

No, not an ocean. Never an ocean again.

And he’d always waited outside, away from her mum, standing near his car, hands in his pocket and shuffling his feet until Rose came out of the house. She’s not ready to move back in yet and he’s picked her up every time they’ve gone anywhere, but he’s still uncertain enough around Jackie to not risk all the extra run-ins.

But now, her mum’s gone and he can take her on a date properly, knocking on the door and everything, so that’s what she figures this is.

They’re in a studio, recording voice-over work for a documentary on British music. The Doctor’s got his glasses and a Beatles t-shirt on, apparently getting into the spirit of things. They’ve just wrapped for the day, and it’s still early afternoon yet when he turns to her, stopping their walk out of the studio.

He’s – nervous? He rubs his fingers against his palms a few times and she can see they’re a little damp. Definitely nervous.

“Rose Tyler,” he says. “I would like to take you out. No, would you go out with me?” He scrunches his face and shakes his head. “No, would you go on a date with me? I would like you to. Go on a date, that is.” He pauses for a breath and adds, “Please.”

She smiles, trying to match his sincerity. “Yes, Doctor, I will go on a date with you.”

He grins in response and it’s an earnest thing, full of hope. “Well, let’s go then! Allons-y! I’ll drop you off at ho– your mother’s, and pick you up in, oh, say an hour?” He’s feigning nonchalance, but there’s something in the way he’s holding himself that tells her he knows exactly that it’ll be an hour.

It’s plenty of time for her to get changed, and she does, but just into some trousers and a blouse under a jumper. She’d rather not be in a dress if his plan is paintball or running through alleys or rolling around in dirt – which are all possibilities because it’s the Doctor.

When he rings the doorbell, and then knocks shortly after, like he’s covering his bases, she’s already waiting in the foyer. She opens the door and he’s standing there, still in his Beatles t-shirt and still in his glasses (and that, she thinks, is definitely on purpose, the way he lifts a hand to adjust them by the side, moving them higher up his nose, all devastating looks and biting his lip).

“Oh, nice of you to get dressed up,” she says, ending with her tongue between her teeth and a grin.

He fakes offense. “This is a clue!”

Now she’s intrigued. “Really? A clue? Are we going to a concert?”

He laughs, “No, but maybe someone will play some music,” and he’s leading her to his car, and opening the door for her with a flourish. She rolls her eyes good-naturedly.

There’s a bag in the back from a local record store and she can just see the tops of some albums sticking out, that must’ve been where he went with his hour because they weren’t there before.

He starts the car and catches her looking at the bag. “You can check them out, if you want. It’s another hint, actually.”

She grabs the bag as he backs the car from the drive and maneuvers them onto the road.

There are several Beatles albums, some Pink Floyd – it’s a mixed bag really. Oasis and Radiohead, Rush and Duran Duran.

There’s a copy of Adam Ant’s “Wonderful,” and she smiles, thinking of the Doctor wandering through their house in his boxer briefs, singing from the kitchen to the living room and back to the bedroom – _Did I tell you you’re wonderful, I miss you, yes I do_ – and then she’s pushing down the part of her that wants to assign the song more significance now.

They’re all great albums, to be sure, but together she can’t figure out a theme. Is he taking her to buy a new iPod? There’s a new model out, she knows because Mickey had texted her from the queue at the front of the store the night before it went on sale.

But no, that’s not very romantic. Where are they going?

“Nothing from The Cure then?” And the words are out of her mouth before she can stop them, but she’s been thinking about it for days – does he know what she did? That she went out there and played alone, that she acted?

He coughs. “Been handling calls on that for weeks, so no, no Cure. I’ve sent Robert a lovely fruit basket though.” He turns to her with a small smile.

There’s a part of her that wishes he’d press it a little bit more, the same parts of her that are keeping her at her mum’s house, that are keeping her from taking his hand, from kissing him.

She nods in response. “I’m sure he appreciated that.”

He shrugs. “Ought to, I made sure there were plenty of bananas.”

The rest of the ride passes in companionable silence, fighting over the radio and Rose looking out the window.

When they finally arrive, she understands the t-shirt and the albums and – oh.

They’re at Abbey Road Studios.

He’s got her out of the car before she can process it, the history and the weight and she shouldn’t be so worked up, she’d been in plenty of studios, plenty of times. But it’s Abbey Road.

Inside he’s a flurry of movement, sliding onto a bench and tapping on a piano. “Lady Madonna, Rose! Lady Madonna was recorded on this exact piano!” His fingers are running up and down the keys, notes tinkling out, and Rose’s eyes are wide.

“Have a go!” he says, sliding over to make room for her on the bench.

She sits, poking at a key experimentally, as if the entire set up will collapse and a hoard of angry Beatles fans is moments from descending. When the doors stay closed and the piano stays in tact, she goes after it more.

Piano’s never been her strong suit, but she taps out the beginning to “Heart & Soul,” the Doctor picking up the duet on the opposite end. They’ve played it through six times, faster and faster each go, smiling and laughing and elbows nudging and then he’s leaping from the bench to drag her into more rooms.

They’ve got the run of the place, not a single artist to be found, and there’s no way this was just because her mum had left town. He’d planned this. At length.

He pulls her around, popping their heads into rooms, the empty restaurant, lingering in hallways, and an hour later they’re in the penthouse studio, all natural light and top-of-the-line-equipment and –

Their guitars.

The Doctor’s shy all of the sudden, toeing at the ground and dropping his eyes. She wraps him in a tight hug on impulse, the most physical contact they’ve had in weeks, and they both notice, backs straightening and limbs locking.

She pulls away quickly, not quite ready for all this yet, but certainly more than ready to play some music, inspired and energized by where they are and the sight of her guitar.

They, in an unspoken agreement, stick solely to covers, neither of them apparently prepared to play anything they’d written together.

Their next gig is a ways away yet and she hopes they’re better by then, hopes that the thought of being on stage with the Doctor again doesn’t make her insides churn with the memory of the last time and the way he wouldn’t look at her.

And the way he left her.

They end very deliberately on a Cure song though, a toned-down cover of “Close to Me” and she watches the Doctor, his fingers on the strings and his mouth around the lyrics and she smiles.


	2. Chapter 2

**The First Time They Held Hands Again**  
  
Between the time the Doctor came home from the Pacific and walked out the door in France, Rose was on eggshells. She constantly worried about saying the wrong thing, pushing a topic too far, probing too deeply into what was going on inside his head. She worried that pushing would provoke him to do what he did anyway — leave her.  
  
Rose doesn’t know exactly what happened during the Doctor’s week in Provence, but whatever it was seems to have broken the eggshells all on its own. Everything inside is exposed to the open air, now. Rose isn’t afraid of breaking anything. The Doctor isn’t evasive, when she asks what he’s thinking.  
  
They’re wandering around the London Film Museum — Rose’s idea, after a leisurely brunch at a nearby restaurant. After life-sized photographic exhibits of Marilyn Monroe and a horde of Harryhausen monsters, they come to stand in front of two large glass display cases: Batman and Superman suits from the two most recent movie incarnations.  
  
Rose walks all the way around the displays, fascinated by the detail on each costume. She comes full circle, standing cattycorner to the Doctor. “Which would you rather wear?”  
  
“Batman,” he answers without hesitation, eyes glued to the display. “Superman’s alien, he doesn’t belong, and Clark Kent is his costume, really. Batman, he’s an average bloke. Clever, sure — rich, of course — blessed with a fan _tas_ tic butler, no argument. But he’s just a man. I like that, an average bloke who’s occasionally extraordinary, instead of having it the other way ‘round.”  
  
He turns to her with a wink. “It occurs to me, that means Donna’s my Alfred. Doesn’t it?”  
  
Rose laughs so loud it echoes around the stark surfaces of the museum and earns them a glare from a security guard. “If Donna hears you call her your  _butler,_  she’ll skin you! But if your sidekick position’s open, I’m sure Jack will be your Robin — he’s bound to already own yellow tights and green pants!”  
  
All of these days they’ve been spending in conversation, getting comfortable with each other again, it’s really the Doctor settling into the idea of a normal life. Not that everything’s going to be picket fences and green lawns and two point five kids, but this relationship they’re re-building, it isn’t the Pop Princess and the Rock Legend. It’s just Rose and the Doctor. They don’t have to be in that battered old blue tour bus, exploring the world; they can just be here, exploring the nooks and crannies of a regular, average existence.  
  
They’re living a life together, day after day — although their nights are separate, with Rose still sleeping at her mum’s and the Doctor by himself at the flat.  
  
Because when it comes down to it, Rose doesn’t exactly trust her self-control. There have been moments — the accidental brush of the back of a hand as they walk together, the quick touch of knees when they sit across from each other at the table, the bump of hips as Rose drops dirty dishes into the sink while the Doctor rinses. But they haven’t kissed, haven’t so much as held hands since the Doctor showed up on Jackie’s doorstep a few weeks ago. Which is a strange thing, because they’ve always held hands, ever since their first gig together at Wembley Stadium.  
  
The thing is, Rose wants to. Every time she gets close to catch the scent of him, aftershave and soap and Doctor, her body aches to wrestle him to the ground in a tangle of limbs, wrap her legs around him and snog him senseless. She craves the warm tickle of his tongue on her chest and the push of his hips between her thighs.  
  
But right now, the physical act would feel like regressing. Going back to the weeks before the concert in France, when all they did was make love, but they didn’t talk at all.  
  
Rose needs both — words and flesh — but for now she’s decided they should work on one at a time. The words have to come first, they have to sort all this out, the talking — no matter how many sweltering nights she lays in bed imagining her own hands belong to the Doctor.  
  
Pub quiz night is the crack in the dam.  
  
There are six of them crammed into the horseshoe-shaped booth, the Doctor and Rose on each end, with Martha, Mickey, Jack and Donna in between. They’re celebrating Jack’s visit and hoping to win a few rounds before the evening’s over.  
  
“I know this one!” Donna crows, snatching the pen from Jack’s hand and scribbling. “Definitely the 17th century!”  
  
“No, no, no,” the Doctor replies, reaching across Jack to take the pen away again. “Definitely the 18th. Machine-based manufacturing took hold in the late 1700s, which I think you’ll realize is  _actually_  the 18th century.”  
  
“What kind of pub asks quiz questions about the beginning of the Industrial Revolution, anyway?” Mickey mutters in Rose’s ear. She grins and bites her lip, trying to hold back a laugh, and when she looks across the table she finds the Doctor staring at her mouth.  
  
His eyes snap up to meet hers. When he realizes he’s been caught, he gives her a sheepish grin.  
  
The argument picks up again and when Rose leans forward to point at something on the quiz sheet, her sandal falls off under the table. She sits back, blindly rooting around for her lost shoe with the tip of her toe. Instead of strappy leather, her toe finds soft canvas, presses down before she realizes what she’s doing.  
  
Across the table, the Doctor’s eyebrows shoot up. His toes flex into the arch of her foot, she feels them through the thin fabric of his Chucks, and heat rushes to her cheeks. Abandoning the search for her lost shoe, she tucks her feet back to her side of the table, snatches her pint and takes a long sip, trying to hide her blush behind the amber liquid.   
  
Four and a half minutes later, when Mickey, Donna and Martha are in a heated argument about Johnny Cash, Rose decides to throw caution to the wind.  
  
Stretching her leg forward again, she probes until she finds the rubber end of his trainer. She walks her toe forward, pushing against canvas, exploring the bumpy contour of his laces. His toes wiggle in response, tickling the arch of her foot again, and she bites the inside of her cheek, keeping her gaze locked onto the argument happening just beside them.  
  
“It’s ‘Ring of Fire,’” the Doctor practically squeaks. “Johnny Cash’s biggest hit that he didn’t write himself. Trust me, just write it down, what’s the next question?”  
  
Rose thinks about the battered copy of the Cash biography that he’d brought home from the island, one of the few things besides the Doctor that survived the ordeal. He glances at her out of the corner of his eye. One side of Rose’s mouth lifts, a half-smile, and she presses down reassuringly on the top of his foot. He pushes back, toes wiggling against the bottom of her heel.  
  
Jack elbows the Doctor and he whips his head around, clearly startled.  
  
“Easy there, tiger,” Jack says, flashing his megawatt grin. “Just need to use the little boy’s room. Do you mind?”  
  
The Doctor stands up to let Jack out of the booth, and before he can sit down again, Rose opens her mouth and surprises herself: “Everybody shift, you know how Jack is, he’s going to be up and down all night. Might as well give the Doctor a break.”  
  
Donna looks at her, looks at the Doctor, and scoots over on the bench. It’s like dominoes after that, Mickey and Martha moving down, and the Doctor grabs his beer and slips in beside Rose. He’s incredibly warm, it’s like sitting next to a space heater — why he’s still wearing his oxford this far into the summer, she can’t begin to imagine. His hip and leg press into hers, and both his hands stay firmly clamped around his beer.  
  
The debate over the quiz answers continue, and Rose leans back, letting her shoulder rest against the Doctor’s. It’s a nice feeling, actually, and she’s managing to not rip off his trousers right here and now, and she begins to wonder if she’s been a bit paranoid, maybe. If she hasn’t trusted herself as much as she ought.  
  
Jack returns with another round for everyone at the table, and the Doctor grabs a spare from him and puts it in front of Rose. She grins at him and what happens next, it’s like muscle memory, something she doesn’t even think about. Her hand rests on his thigh and squeezes, a small, silent thanks.  
  
He clears his throat and says too loudly, “Haiti! Haiti’s secret police were the Tonton Macoute. Next!”  
  
Martha looks at Rose. “He’s always this bad on quiz night, is he?”  
  
“Sometimes it’s worse,” she replies, wrinkling her nose.  
  
“Oi! I’m  _brilliant_  on quiz night!” the Doctor says, nudging her ribs with his elbow and staring at them both with affected indignation.  
  
The spirited debate around the table continues, and before Rose knows it, the stiff tension she’s been holding onto for the last two weeks, the worry and paranoia about touching the Doctor too much, it’s begun to melt. Feeling the slow, steady rise and fall of his torso as he breathes, his arms gesturing animatedly as he talks with their friends, it’s a comfort she hasn’t had in a long time.  
  
It feels like home.  
  
And so when Martha is in the middle of explaining exactly how certain she is that Kylie’s duet ‘Specially for You’ was done with Jason Donovan, and Rose notices that under the table, the Doctor has casually let his hand rest on his own thigh, with his palm turned upward, she doesn’t feel the tightening of nerves in her stomach that she might have a few hours earlier.  
  
Well, she  _does_  feel a tightening, but it’s more of a dense heat that begins below her sternum and radiates downward.  
  
She drops her left hand under the table, lets it rest on her own thigh for a while, waiting for the thrum of her pulse to slow down, hoping her palm isn’t too sweaty. Slowly, cautiously, she picks up that hand and brings it over to brush against the inside of his wrist.  
  
Nobody notices what’s happening: their hands are hidden beneath the pitted oak table and the Doctor doesn’t look at her — he’s acting ever-so interested in Mickey’s argument that Kylie’s duet was really with Kermit the Frog. Rose remembers that, actually — sitting with Mickey on the sofa in her mum’s flat at the Powell estate, watching it on telly — but she’s far too distracted to back him up in his argument.  
  
Rose slowly traces the length of the Doctor’s hand, stroking across his palm and to his fingertips. When the pads of her fingers rest against his, he pushes back gently, an encouraging nudge.  
  
She lets her fingers slip between his, and he curls his long digits around the back of her hand, pressing their palms together and squeezing. She squeezes back. He grabs his pint, beaming behind it before he takes a few long swallows, head tipped up and adam’s apple bobbing.  
  
His knee bumps hers and she’s grinning like a loon, and when the Doctor softly hums a few bars of “Ring of Fire,” Rose hums right along with him.  
  
 **The First Time They Shared a Bed Again**  
  
It’s not that he’s not paying attention to the movie.  
  
It’s that he’s not paying attention to  _just_  the movie.  
  
He’s paying attention to Rose, curled up next to him on the couch, her side pressed into his, and the way even with the awkward pressure, the way his arm is asleep and his leg is asleep and her hair keeps getting in his face, that it’s the best he’s felt in weeks. In three weeks. In three weeks and five and a half days and months before that, too.  
  
For all their closeness though, it’s not close enough, and so he’s paying attention to the time, watching the sun set through the blinds. She’s not been back at the flat while it’s been dark out. Not since he came home.  
  
They’d been playing at progress, dates and hand-holding, hugs and looped arms.  
  
But they haven’t kissed, and she hasn’t spent the night, always returning to Jackie’s from wherever they are just as the sun is setting.  
  
He’s not going to kiss her tonight, not unless she starts it, and the way she’d been running from every possible kissing situation (he can name three off the top of his head), she won’t be doing that right now.  
  
But maybe she’ll stay. Maybe she’ll be the woman that nestled up into him in their bed that seems to have only grown bigger in her absence.  
  
Maybe she’ll be the woman that inked out the lyrics to “Firework Olympics” one night, right as they’d written them, right on his chest. One hand flat against his skin and the other gripping the pen, a smile on her lips as he squirmed when it tickled.  
  
Maybe she’ll be the woman that grins at him every time they sing that song, pulling her hand from her guitar to wiggle her fingers in his direction.  
  
Maybe.  
  
The moon is finally visible, the glow of it casting the room in far less light than the sun, and the credits to the movie are rolling. Rose reaches for the remote, changing the channel back to the television, and he waits.  
  
The movement – the time spent where she’s leaning forward and he’s waiting to see if she’ll lean back, it passes like years, blood pumping through his veins so fast he wishes he had a second heart to handle it all.  
  
(He’d give them both to Rose.)  
  
She leans back.  
  
He lets the television play, a chat show and adverts and the musical guest, and neither of them are saying much, but it’s a comfortable silence, one like they used to have, on the rare night he could stop his gob.  
  
Of course, he’ll need to poke at that silence with a stick.  
  
“Would you – I mean, I could get you something else to wear, if you want?” His voice sounds loud and rough and so very, very hopeful, even to his own ears.  
  
She raises her eyebrows, a glimpse of a smirk crossing her lips. “Is there something wrong with what I’m wearing, Doctor?” And she says it teasing, all light and happy, and he feels the ghost of a pen on his skin, right across his ribs.  
  
“I just thought, perhaps, you’d like some jim-jams,” he says and it’s the coward’s way out, asking without asking, and she’ll call him on it, he knows. This wonderful woman, all packaged up and perfect for him, and never letting him have an inch.  
  
“Whatever would I need jim-jams for?” Her tongue’s between her teeth at the end; there it is.  
  
“We-ll,” he drags the word out, scratching at the back of his neck with the hand not wrapped around her shoulders and stopping for a tug on his ear for good measure. “I thought you might sleep here. It’s getting late. Wouldn’t do to have some alien snatch you up in the middle of the night.”  
  
She pulls back to see his face better. “Aliens,  _really_? And it’s hardly the middle of the night, it’s what? 7 o’ clock?”  
  
He follows after her, sitting up. “These are very specific aliens, 7 o’ clock aliens. And you’d be in the danger zone, going out there now.”  
  
It’s a stretch, obviously, but it feels less like justifying and more like flirting and he lets himself relax.  
  
“The danger zone? Tell me, these aliens, do they have to cut loose? Footloose? Or are they all right? Nobody worry them?”  
  
He sniffs, “True, all of it. And how dare you use such holy lyrics outside the Temple of Loggins? Now you’re really in trouble. I couldn’t, in good conscience, let you leave. It’d be certain doom.”  
  
She presses her fingers together, bending them against the palm of her opposite hand and cracking her knuckles, consideration on her face. “Time-specific aliens that worship Kenny Loggins?”  
  
He nods.  
  
“You’re right,” she says. “That’s nothing to be trifled with.”  
  
The pause stretches and stretches and stretches.  
  
“I’ll stay.”  
  
He grins, stifling the triumphant whoop threatening to escape his throat, but grabbing her hand anyway. They watch TV for a while longer, he gets up to get them a snack, and she follows to get drinks, easy banter and meaningful looks.  
  
When they finally stand to go to bed, she looks at him, picking up the thread of their earlier conversation.  
  
“But no funny business,” she says and her face is a mystery.  
  
“No, no, definitely not, no funny business, no monkey business, no side one of Led Zeppelin IV.”  
  
She gives him a weird look and he can’t hide his surprise. “No Fast Times at Ridgemont High, Rose Tyler? That’s a great movie, Sean Penn, Jennifer Jason Leigh, a perfect picture of Amer –”  
  
“Doctor,” she cuts him off, rubbing at her eyes with a smile. “I’m tired.”  
  
“Right, right, you’re tired. And you’ll need jim-jams.”  
  
It’s warm in their bedroom, the thermostat suffering the ill effects of some overzealous tinkering on his part, and so sweats are out, dressing gowns are out, and the trousers from his pajamas are far too long for her to even roll.  
He pulls out a thin, white undershirt and a pair of boxer briefs, navy and striped and she’d bought them for him, ages ago; they’re his favorite.  
  
She looks at the clothes in his outstretched hand and seems to be considering something. He’s considering something, too, he’s considering what it’ll do to him to see her in his clothes again. He’s considering whether she’ll keep her bra on, and her knickers. He’s considering diverting his thoughts elsewhere. And he’s considering himself a failure on that front.  
  
With a nod, she comes to a decision, grabbing the clothes and scampering off to their en suite. It was probably too much to hope that she’d undress in front of him, but it doesn’t stop him from picturing it, closing his eyes and imaging her fingers on the clasp of her trousers.  
  
No, no, she’d start with her shirt, grasping it from the bottom and pulling it up over her head, the lines of her ribs, the few scattered moles, and her soft, smooth skin stretching with the movement. Her stomach would flatten out as she raised her arms, curving in before she lowered them.  
  
If she’s not undressing for him, it’s more efficient, and she’ll reach behind herself and unclasp her bra, shimmying it down her arms and tossing it into a pile on the floor with her shirt.  
  
Then, then, her trousers, fingers on the clasp, sliding it free, and then she’d lower the zipper, tooth by tooth while she focuses on her toes. Depending on what she sees on them, she’ll get out the nail polish tomorrow.  
  
Her fingers will hook into her waistband, pushing her trousers down so she can step out of them. She’ll consider herself in the mirror for a moment, hands lingering on places he loves to touch, and then she’ll redress. He pays less attention to this part, generally speaking, and he’s lost in thought, trying to bring up a memory, when the door opens and Rose steps out.  
  
She’d kept her bra on, the outline of it visible under his shirt, and the satiny fabric making the t-shirt cling to her breasts. But her legs, oh god, her legs, there’s so much of her legs, his pants bagging in some places, curving against her in others.  
  
His gaze lingers, he knows because she clears her throat, and he has to raise his head up to even see her face.   
  
He smiles, trying for polite and non-threatening, but probably ending up somewhere around ridiculous and aroused, and he practically leaps into the bathroom.  
  
He pulls off his socks, shucks his trousers down and strips off his Oxford, debating for only a moment, before taking off his undershirt, too. It leaves him only in his boxer briefs, but it really is hot in the room, and he won’t touch her, he swears, not unless she touches him first.  
  
Almost as an afterthought, he folds his clothes, bending down to pick up hers and folding them, too, placing the piles side by side on the counter and feeling warm at the sight.  
  
Then he thinks of the sight on the other side of the door, and he feels even warmer.  
  
She’s already in bed, on her half of it, when he comes back into the bedroom, and his stomach flips as she grins at him.  
  
He’d finally had to give in and launder the sheets last week, and the scent of Rose, the real scent of her, the combination of all of it, all the artificial smells he had somewhere in the flat (and he knew because he’d sniffed at all of them), but mixed with her skin, mixed with her, had been washed away.  
  
Would asking her to roll around a bit be frowned upon?  
  
Probably.  
  
Leaping into the bed with enthusiasm and delighting in her laugh, he clicks off the bedside lamp.  
  
The room is dark, curtains instead of blinds like in the rest of the flat, and he can barely see her outline as his eyes adjust. It’s silent, too, just the sound of their breathing and a dog barking somewhere outside. She turns to him and the noise of her as she rustles the sheets seems unnaturally loud.  
  
He’s already on his side and her movement brings them face to face, pillows nearly touching and a few inches between their noses. She stares at him and he tries to track her eyes as they seem to catalogue his face. She reaches out and runs a finger down his nose and he holds his breath until she pulls away and they lapse back into silence.  
  
“Rose,” he says, and it’s a question and a statement, because he wants to ask her something, but he also wants to declare it – Rose Tyler is here, in their bed.  
  
“Yes, Doctor?” And her voice is amused, but breathy, like she’s trying for casual and failing.  
  
“Do you suppose monkeys spoon?” He says and she stares at him again while he pushes forward: “I mean, what I’m asking is, if monkeys don’t like to have a cuddle, then we could do that and it wouldn’t be considered, well, you know, monkey business.”  
  
Her grin is wide, what little light there is in the room glinting off her teeth. “I don’t think monkeys cuddle.”  
  
She rolls away from him and he rubs his head further into pillow – he’d totally misread that, then. But she’s scooting back into him, fitting her knees against his and reaching behind her to pull at his arm until it’s wrapped around her waist.  
  
He locks it there, thumb brushing her stomach as his fingers dance along her hip, curling in to edge at the feel of hard bone under soft skin.  
  
Leaning up, he moves his pillow closer to hers in a flash and then he’s back down, settling his chest against her back and pacing his breathing to hers.  
  
It’s been such a long time since he’s felt truly rested, since he was looking forward to a good night’s sleep instead of just getting through the night, but he’s already closing his eyes. She wiggles her hips back into him once and he tightens his arm, stilling the movement before he can get himself into trouble. As it is, he twitches against her bum and she lets out a breath, but thankfully stops wiggling.  
  
Just as he’s dropping off, he feels Rose’s finger on the skin of his forearm, tracing patterns. It takes a moment but he recognizes it – the lyrics to “Firework Olympics.”  
  
And he sleeps.  
  
The next morning he wakes up and his body isn’t curled around Rose, but his hand is. She’s flat on her back, covers kicked to the ground and limbs stuck out at odd angles. He’s still on his side, filling the negative space around her body and gripping her bicep.  
  
He tightens his hand reflexively and she wakes, turning her head to blink at him with sleepy eyes and a sleepy grin, like a thousand mornings before. The surge of love he feels tumbles through his body, filling up every cell, and his mouth is open before he can stop it.  
  
“Rose, please come home.”  
  
The words come out in a rush of morning breath and hope and his eyes widen as he realizes what he’s done.  
  
But instead she’s nodding, rolling over onto her side and raising a leg to loop around his, skin against skin and he sighs at the feel of it.  
  
“I will,” she says.  
  
And she does.


	3. Chapter 3

  
**The First Time Rose Kissed the Doctor Again**

The party could have been an actual surprise for all Rose noticed it getting closer.

She was so focused, so completely and totally hyper-focused on the Doctor and his mouth and his stubble and the tendons in his neck and the soft-but-grainy-with-product feel of his hair, that walking into a celebration filled with all of their friends left her stunned.

She’d nearly forgotten. The media had predicted the Doctor as an early favorite for nomination for induction into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame this year and Donna had promised a party if his name made the list.

Surprising absolutely no one, it did. And invitations had gone out weeks ago, right as they were just getting their bearings back, to a medium-sized guest list for a party at Donna’s house.

The summer was stretching on, warm weather lingering later than it usually did, and there were promises of swimming, nibbles, and plenty of alcohol.

Looking back, she’s not sure how she missed it.

The Doctor had spent the week practicing his best, “Hello, Cleveland!” and singing songs from local bands. If he told her he’d been carried to Ohio in a swarm of bees one more time, she was going to personally purchase every album The National had ever made and cover them, and the Doctor, in honey.

(Not least of all because the thought of licking honey from the Doctor’s skin was an incredibly distracting – and pleasing – thought.)

So, for her not to notice as the Doctor warbled through the Black Keys, focusing intently on her every time he slipped back into “Howlin’ for You,” well, it was her own fault.

But it didn’t matter whether she’d been paying attention because they were here now. The sun bright in a cloudless sky and the Doctor in blue swimming trunks that unintentionally matched her own suit, cannon-balling into the pool as everyone around them drank and ate and celebrated.

Donna had a cake made up, an elaborate thing with fondant records and instruments and Rose is staring at it when it hits her how incredibly _proud_ she is.

Mickey walks up, squinting at the cake before turning to Rose. “10 quid it looks better than it tastes,” he says and she laughs.

“Sucker’s bet,” she says, but her mind is elsewhere, thinking of the Doctor and a lifetime of albums, and how had she ever gotten here? How was she once the girl that had curled up with his liner notes, music piping through her headphones so as not to bother her mum?

And now, she was _here_ , a rock star in her own right, and the Doctor staring at her mouth, taking her on elaborate dates, holding her hand and holding her at night, and doing everything in his power to prove how much he loved her.

Oh, but she wanted to kiss him, to grab him up from the pool, or follow him into it, water and lips and tongues and the temperature of his skin and the feeling of his fingers on her bare hip.

She’d do it today, she knew.

There’d been so many aborted attempts, so many times where she leaned in only to pull away at the last second in a rush of uncertainty.

Whatever she’d been waiting for, she’d found it now, and she felt calm, like the seconds before they take the stage and the noise of the crowd drops out and it’s just the Doctor, squeezing her hand and grinning, and knowing, really knowing, they were about to have a great show.

Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Mickey move to poke at the cake and then she hears the Doctor’s voice.

“No use, Mickey! I don’t know what that stuff is, but it’s definitely not frosting,” he says and walks up beside them, squeezing Rose’s shoulder and sending a crackle of warmth up her neck.

Mickey’s hand freezes, drawing back as Martha joins them, too.

“Is he into the cake?” she says, and then turns to Mickey. “Thought you’d have gotten enough of that last week!”

The Doctor’s curious expression matches Rose’s and Mickey shrugs, but then breaks out into a wide grin.

“Wedding cakes,” he says. “Some bloody brilliant chocolate ones.”

Rose reaches down, trying to find a feeling for what she thinks of Mickey, Mickey who’s always been there, marrying someone else. But there’s only happiness for him and it only grows as the Doctor pipes up with his opinion.

“So long as you stay away from pears,” he says, like he’s delivering some wise piece of advice.

Martha laughs and tugs at Mickey’s arm. “Noted, no pears,” and then she’s leading Mickey away and leaving Rose standing with the Doctor.

“Some party,” he says. “I’m a little bit embarrassed, actually.”

He scratches at a spot on his chest where a water droplet is making a path. He’s still just in his trunks, clearly having come in right from the pool and won’t Donna just love that, the Doctor dripping all over the carpet.

“You earned it,” Rose says, reaching out a hand to trace the red mark left on his chest by his scratching. His heart is steady under her hand and she steps forward to fold him into a hug.

His arms wrap around her instantly, fingers playing with the tie of her bikini top before he drops a hand to her waist, spanning the skin of her back and the fabric of the sarong she’d wrapped around her waist.

“What’s this for?” and his voice sounds curious and hopeful and it makes her tighten her hold on him for a moment before pulling back.

“For being you, for making me proud, for coming back. For waiting.” She could keep going, but she forces herself to stop and look up at him.

The corners of his eyes crinkle with his smile. “Rose Tyler,” he says and it’s like jumping into a pool on a hot day, the way he says her name. “I was always going to come back. And I’ll wait as long as you’d like me to.”

She’s not sure how to respond, the words knotting in her throat as the Doctor continues.

“You waited for me,” he says. “Not just with France, but with an ocean. With a whole first tour, where I wasted so much time, and –”

He trails off, realizing once more that they’re in the middle of a party at the same time she does.

This new Doctor, the one that edges his actions with words, she’s still not entirely sure what to do with him and so instead she looks meaningfully over his shoulder at the guest room, the one Donna uses as a spare closet.

She’s not sure what to do with him, but she knows it shouldn’t be out here.

His eyes widen as he realizes where she’s looking and then she’s walking toward the room, the Doctor on her heels.

“So,” she says, when they’ve entered the room, and the Doctor’s gaze darts from the door to Rose and back to the door. He won’t shut it himself, she realizes. It’s her terms, and he intends to abide by them.

She shuts the door.

“So,” the Doctor replies.

“Feels a bit familiar, this,” she says and she’s thinking of a different pool and, months later, a different door, closed to a room full of their friends and the sounds of a party.

He watches her carefully, eyes weighing her out before he speaks.

“Think I locked the door that time,” he says and he glances down at the doorknob.

She steps aside, legs like dough, and gestures palm up at the knob, giving him an opening.

He reaches forward and locks the door with a _click_ , staring at her mouth without wavering.

The weight of what she’s doing – what they’re doing – is heavy. The smell of chlorine from the Doctor mixes with Donna’s expensive perfume, lingering in every corner of the house, and it’s warm, so warm. Even with the moisture in the air, her lips feel dry and she licks at them reflexively.

The Doctor’s breath hitches and he moves to step forward before visibly stopping himself. She wants, it’s crazy how much she wants, how much time she’s spent thinking about this over the last month. It would be easier if he were pushing, if she were forced to make a decision, and then just deal with the consequences, but he won’t, refusing to be anything but a perfect, respectful gentleman.

With a case of wandering eyes.

Looking at him is becoming too much and her gaze darts around the room, looking for distraction. It settles on the bed, on the pile of clothes and duffel bags, sandals and pool gear. This must’ve been where everyone was putting their stuff.

The time it takes her to make that assessment is significant enough that the Doctor’s jaw has gone slack, his eyes on Rose as she watches the bed.

“Not – not that,” she says and the words aren’t exactly what she wants to say, but they’re close enough that he nods.

“Not anything,” he says. “Not if you’re not sure. Rose, listen.” The Doctor reaches down to take her hand, knitting their fingers together before continuing. “I want to do it right, I don’t want anymore resets after this, this is me – how’d you put it? – _signing up._ Forever. And if you need to wait until tomorrow or next week or next autumn, I will wait with you, holding your hand.”

The last bit of fight goes out of her and she remembers a video from school, the healing process of a wound in fast-forward motion, the way it went from open and bleeding, to scabbed and healing, and finally to a smooth, pink scar, a reminder, but one that doesn’t hurt so much.

She tugs on his hand to get him to follow her as makes her way to the the bed. Most of the pool stuff is in the middle of the duvet, but she releases his hand and makes a show of pushing it up toward the pillows, buying herself some time before she perches on the end of the mattress, feet still firmly on the floor.

The Doctor sits next to her, close enough that the damp fabric of his swim trunks presses against her leg and she can feel the moisture seeping through her sarong and onto her skin.

“So,” she says again.

“So,” he replies again. And that’s it, that’s the last crack, and the dam breaks.

She’s turning her head to kiss him at the same time he’s turning his to continue the conversation and he parts his lips as she meets them with her own.

Her hands, resting in her lap, immediately rise, one cupping his cheek while the other fits into his hair.

It’s just a soft pressure, lips on lips, and then it’s not – he turns fully into the kiss, hands on her waist as they’re both pressing forward into each other, an unmovable object and an unstoppable force and won’t the Doctor be proud once he stops clutching at the skin of her hips like it’s the only thing keeping him anchored.

He’s still following her lead, the pull backs and adjustments, and when she nips at his bottom lip, he returns the action in kind, before sliding a hand to span the width of her back, making a little noise in the back of his throat as she tightens her fingers in his hair.

It’s open mouths and warm breath and she can feel the water from his bathing suit everywhere now and she’s ignoring any other moisture she’s feeling, pushing it down and locking it away because she said not that and she won’t stand for this treason, not from her own body.

Instead she slips her tongue past her lips, and his, and he’s anticipated the move, so there’s no tentative touch, no finesse, just slick heat as she licks at the inside of his mouth, his tongue twining with her own.

It feels familiar, of course it feels familiar, but there’s a steady pulse of nerves still flooding her system, as if she hadn’t kissed him a thousand times before.

His hand grips tighter around her waist before loosening and pulling away. Their feet are still on the ground and it’s making it awkward, the angles and twists of their bodies and he uses his free hand to brace himself on the bed and scoot backward.

She follows after him, her mouth chasing for his as his movement separates them. Then he’s got his arms under and around her, pulling her along with him as he settles them more comfortably. She ends up reclining her against a pile of spare towels, their feet dangling from the edge of the bed.

He catches her eye and raises his eyebrows, checking to see if this new position is okay. She nods and pulls his head back down to hers, but he diverts course, his lips latching onto her neck.

She arches into the kiss, craning her neck to give him more access and then he’s kissing licking biting sucking his way up to her ear, mouth enveloping the lobe before he tugs at it with his teeth and swirls his tongue just. like. that.

His arms are on either side of her, braced against the mattress and keeping his weight from her, but she wants that, wants the weight of him, of them, and she leans up into him, arms winding up to curl at his shoulders and tug him down.

The skin of her stomach meets the damp skin of his chest and it’s like striking a match, suddenly she’s engulfed in heat, in the feel of him, and her hands move to claw at his back, nails scratching and fingers grabbing and he hisses into her neck, his breath warm against the column of her throat.

She turns into him, slipping a leg around him to pull his lower body closer and the feel of him, warm and hard and Doctor, against her makes her groan, a quiet, low noise, and then she’s pulling at his hair, hands brushing against his ears as she brings his mouth back to hers.

His hand fits into the small of her back and he rolls them to their sides so there’s less pressure and more room to move.

She kisses him again, long and messy and wet, open mouths meeting over and over, barely any use for lips as their tongues slide and move together.

No, definitely couldn’t have done this in the middle of the party.

He’s leaning on his forearm now, hand pinned, curled against her ribs, and he slides the hand on her back around to her stomach, fingers drawing light circles on her skin.

Slowly his fingers inch higher, edging the bottom of her breast through her bathing suit top as he slows their kiss, gentle now, lips just barely pressing before he pulls back to look at her.

His fingers have stilled, his face is flushed and he’s asking her for permission with the way he’s holding himself.

“Will that make it harder?” she asks, and his grin is filthy. She swats at his back, a light, little smack that makes his eyebrows climb into his hair and his hips arch into her.

“To stop. Will that make it more _difficult_ to stop?” she says around a breath.

He looks torn and his voice is quiet and rough when he answers, “It’s already going to be plenty difficult, but as soon as you say the word, Rose. I swear.”

There’s so much hope and arousal and heat between them that she gives a tiny nod before she can stop herself.

His fingers twitch against her skin, moving almost imperceptibly closer to her breast before he catches himself and clears his throat, the sound echoing between them.

“Is that a _‘Yes, you want me to stop’_ or a _‘Yes, make it more difficult’_?”

She can’t help it, she laughs and this is part of what she loves about the Doctor, that for all their passion, for all the ways this thing between them seems overwhelming at times, she is always, always having fun. She’s never laughed more in bed than she does with him.

“Increased difficulty seems right up your alley,” she says and glances down between them to where his hand rests.

She watches his fingers move, sliding gently up until he’s cupping her. He squeezes just the slightest bit, a faint pressure, and her eyes are slamming closed as she pushes herself further into his hand.

She hears his answering chuckle and it makes her tighten her leg, rocking into him and smirking when he grunts in response.

He’s circling his fingers in, skirting around what she wants him to do, the thin material of her bikini doing nothing to hide his target and then he’s there. She pushes against him again, mouth opening and closing before he covers it with his own.

His tongue is lapping against her own, sloppy and secondary as his fingers roll and tug and –

_BANG!_

A fist hits the door. “Oi! You two better not be doing anything that’ll stain!” Donna’s voice is clear even through the wood. “There’s Versace in there!”

They spring apart, caught like two teenagers and a tiny part of Rose is grateful for the interruption because she knows what she said, but stopping was starting to seem like an increasingly bad idea.

“Just finding a towel,” the Doctor says and his voice is less strained than Rose would have thought. Maybe he really did intend for them to stop soon.

“I don’t care what you call it, but if you need a _towel_ , you find it at your own flat and away from my couture!”

Donna’s presence has been invaluable over the last month, a steady voice of normalcy with Rose and, after a initial tongue-lashing Rose only heard about in pieces from a very vague Doctor, with him, too.

“It is your party,” Rose says, trying to pitch her voice low enough that Donna can’t hear.

But she does.

“That’s right! It’s his party and if he thinks anyone else is going to touch these 300 banana canapés he made me order, he’s mistaken. You better get out here and eat these, Rock Boy!”

The Doctor stands from the bed, re-adjusting himself in his trunks before reaching down a hand to help Rose up.

He opens the door and breezes by Donna. “That’s _Rock and Roll Hall of Fame nominee_ Rock Boy,” he says and zeroes in on a passing tray of nibbles.

He plucks one off and turns to Rose, winking as he runs his tongue along the edge, scooping up some of the banana custard oozing from the edge before popping it into his mouth.

Donna turns to Rose and rolls her eyes. “Are you sure you’re ready to sign on for that again?”

“Yeah.” Rose smiles. “Yeah, I am.”

 

**The First Time the Doctor Kissed Rose Again**

The Doctor can be a _very_ patient man.

He played weddings and hole-in-the-wall clubs for years before his first big break. He put up with the Master’s diva antics for an eternity before they finally called it quits. He badgered Donna for months before she agreed to become his manager — even after she turned him down flat, the minute she reappeared in his life, he jumped on the partnership.

He waited for nearly half a year after he met Rose Tyler before giving in to his baser urges ( _oh, why bother being coy with the semantics — his urge to fuck her until she screamed his name_ ) — trying to protect her youth and artistic integrity, telling himself that if he gave in he’d be using her, she was just a friend, a companion, someone to keep him company. Telling himself she wasn’t any different than the others who he’d taken on the road with him.

Of course, over the last few months the Doctor has realized that he’s a very good liar. Especially when he’s lying to himself.

Rose is anything but _just_ another companion.

Rose is everything.

The morning after the pool party at Donna’s, the Doctor stands in their kitchen and stares at the toaster. His foot taps as he imagines throwing the machine against the opposite wall — _good god,_ how long could it _possibly_ take for bread to get _warm_ , this isn’t interstellar navigation, it’s only _breakfast_ — it suddenly occurs to the Doctor that he’s lying to himself again.

He is _not_ a very patient man.

And no matter how much he tells Rose he’s willing to wait, no matter how resolved he is to follow her lead, the fact remains that he’s still utterly, completely preoccupied with the desire to fuck her until she screams his name. The Doctor needs, with every fibre of his being, to know she still wants him. That she still loves him. He needs it so badly he can taste it, strawberry shampoo and salty sweat and Rose.

Of course, working up the nerve to initiate a kiss would be a good intermediate step. A nice segue into the name-screaming.

He’s been letting her set the pace, because heaven knows he came home from France consumed with such love for her — her company, her cleverness, her everything — that he was ready to strip her naked and take her right there on the lounge chairs at Jackie’s house.

But he was broken, and his brokenness had led him to break things with Rose, and they have to finish patching the mess he’s made, first.

The Doctor seizes the toaster, using his index finger to force the button upward, and the bread pops out. It’s pale, not the slightest bit toasted.

Rose walks in ten minutes later and he’s at the kitchen table, reading the morning paper and eating a Satsuma. She stops in the door, rumpled from sleep, her hair a bird’s nest, yawning and stretching. She lifts her arms toward the ceiling, breasts jiggling beneath the practically sheer fabric of his undershirt, the hem lifting to reveal the curve of her hips filling out his boxer-briefs.

Just because Rose kissed him last night at Donna’s party does not mean he has carte blanche to pin her up against the kitchen wall and use his tongue to explore her from head to foot.

Does it?

Asking seems a bit too forward. Maybe a touch crass, even.

Of course, Rose sometimes likes it when he’s crass and using his tongue. Sometimes she growls filthy words right back to him, hands yanking at his hair and thighs bumping the sides of his head.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Rose asks through her yawn, still stretching. The Doctor starts like he’s been caught with his fingers in the jam jar.

“Satsuma?” He tosses one at her. Her arms snap down to catch it — blessed relief, no more jiggling and arching forward. She comes to join him at the table, legs folding up under her in the wooden chair. In a few deft movements, she has the orange peeled.

She strips away a section of the inner flesh, setting it onto her tongue and the Doctor is _not_ looking at the way she draws it into her mouth and licks juice from her lips afterward, he is most certainly reading an article about Pippa Middleton and if Rose would just stop breathing _quite_ so deliberately, her chest rising and falling like that, the Doctor could get a bead on who Pippa was romantically linked to. He’s promised Adam he’ll try to arrange an introduction, after all.

“Busy day today,” Rose says, reaching over to snatch a section of the paper and scanning through it. “Last night Donna told me you have two radio spots, a television interview, and a meeting with a reporter. She said I had to make sure you got a good night’s sleep.” She eats another piece of the orange. “You were up early this morning. Did you sleep well?”

Falling into bed last night with Rose when they finally made it home, the Doctor hadn’t been tired at all. He’d woken up before dawn, dreaming the memory of her mouth. She was asleep against his chest and he lay very still, resting his lips on her temple and breathing the scent of her, until he finally had to extract himself from her arms and lock himself in the loo for fifteen minutes, hoping she didn’t wake up before he was done.

“Slept like a log! Wellllllll — when I say log, I mean a rock – some sort of granite or marble, a stone would definitely be a better metaphor, come to think about it. Slept like a rock.” He clears his throat, crumpling a napkin in one hand, wondering when exactly he regressed into a fifteen-year-old again. He asks hopefully, “You coming along with me today?”

Rose shakes her head and hops up to fix herself a mug of tea, pouring hot water from the kettle on the stove. “I’m meeting mum for lunch — we have to talk business, she says — and this afternoon, Amy and I are going wedding dress shopping with Martha, and then we’re meeting Donna for girls’ night afterward.”

“Oh.”

She plops a teabag into the mug and turns around to grin at him, tongue touching her top lip. “You don’t have to sound like you’re being sent to the other side of the universe all by yourself. You’ve got Donna to keep you out of trouble most of the day.” She comes over, resting a hand on his shoulder and leaning down to kiss the crown of his head. “I’ll be quick in the shower, out of here in a jif.”

She leaves the kitchen, hips swaying.

The day is a long series of repetitions, reliving the same hour over and over again, the same questions, and no matter how much he tries to shake things up, ignoring Donna’s stern glares from across the room, it’s not nearly as fun as the days when Rose is in the interviews with him.

_How does it feel to be an inductee into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame?_ A bit bloated, to be honest — I ate three dozen banana canapés at a party last night, and if the noises my stomach’s making are anything to go by, they’ve lodged somewhere around my spleen.

_How did you get the news?_ My best mate, my manager Donna, she called when I was lost under the Thames barrier — it’s a long story, I won’t get into it, an incident involving spiders and a malfunctioning Segway — aaaaanyway, she got me directions out of the tunnels and told me the news at the same time. It definitely ranks somewhere in the five best phone calls of my life.

_And what about the fact that the Master has also been nominated this year? Does this re-ignite the feud between you?_ I can say, with utter sincerity, that everything between us is far more dramatic than the media would have you believe. But that’s all water under the bridge.

The Doctor comes home long after dark with a bag full of Thai take-out, but the apartment is quiet and empty. He checks his phone, doesn’t see any messages, and eats his half of dinner alone.

Rose comes back a few hours later.

“Look what the cat dragged in,” he says good-naturedly as she collapses on the couch beside him, squinting at the telly. It’s _Taggart_ , an episode he’s seen before, but they’re just at his favorite bit: _There’s been a murrrrrr-der!_ He waits until the last syllable before hitting the mute button.

“M’not drunk,” she says, and he only half believes her. “M’just tired. How were the interviews?”

“Tedious,” he replies. “How was dress-shopping?”

“Thirty-one stores in, I didn’t even know there were that many bridal boutiques in London, but Martha found something — backless, with beads along here” — she gestures to her stomach — “and a bit of satin” — she gestures to her legs, and really she might as well be speaking a foreign language for all he’s paying attention to her words — “and a strappy situation” — she gestures to her chest and shoulders.

The Doctor says, “Sounds gorgeous.”

“It is.” She sighs, rests her head on his shoulder, and as restless as he’s been since they left this flat this morning, suddenly everything settles back in as it should be.

She sticks her feet straight out, pointing at her shoes. They’re a fashionable heeled affair, and he can see her skin has been rubbed red in a few spots. “These were a tactical error. I should’ve worn my trainers. Don’t know what I was thinking.”

The Doctor slips off the couch and onto the floor in a smooth motion, kneeling in front of her. Long fingers working at the buckles on the shoes, he unhooks them one at a time and slips them off onto the floor. He runs his hands over each foot, squeezing. Her toes are so cold.

“Better?”

“Heavenly,” Rose sighs happily.

Fingers wrapping around her ankles, the Doctor slides his hands up her smooth legs, simultaneously scooting closer until his hips rest against the front of the couch, between her knees. His hands stop just beneath the hem of her skirt, not venturing any further. She’s still lounging against the back cushion, her attention fixed on his every movement.

She reaches out to trace the dimple in his cheek with the side of her index finger. “You look tired, too.”

The Doctor is anything but tired, the very heart of him afire with the need to crawl onto the couch on top of her, feel her nails scrape across his back as he covers her body with his own and buries himself between her legs. She’s looking at him, her honey-colored eyes warm, but she’s not pulling him into her arms, and he’s going to wait – he’s not going to rush things, not going to push faster than she needs to go.

He stays on his knees in front of her. _I am,_ he tells himself very deliberately, _a patient man._

“I was sorely tempted by your other strappy heeled sandal-things in the closet, the pink ones – they would’ve looked brilliant with my suit – but I made a better choice today and went with the trainers. I could run a marathon,” he retorts, plucking her hand away from his cheek and bringing it to his mouth, resting his lips against her open palm. Ever-so-quietly, her breath catches.

Here it is, the familiar rush of nerves filling the pit of the Doctor’s stomach. Worry that Rose will kick him away, push him out; the nagging thought that she isn’t truly ready to forgive him yet. He studies her face — her full lips, parted just a little, as though she wants to taste something; pupils, enormous and dark; round cheeks, pink and warm.

In spite of his nerves, he isn’t as cautious as he’d been last night in the guest room at Donna’s house, isn’t as tentative. Isn’t waiting for permission for each touch, because she’s already given it.

He plants little kisses down her palm and to the inside of her wrist, pausing where her pulse flutters against his lips.

She’s so quiet, _everything’s_ so quiet. Still kneeling in front of her, he reaches out with the other hand to tuck her blond hair behind one ear, exposing her neck and cheek. He rises up on his knees, leans forward. His mouth rests against her forehead for a long moment, one hand pushing into the cushion beside her hip for support, the other slipping around the back of her neck.

“Rose,” he whispers, and she’s still so very silent, nearly motionless, her eyes closed and her breathing shallow. The Doctor tips his head sideways, brushes his lips against her right cheek as his fingers curl, short fingernails sliding through her hair.

Moving slowly, savoring the fact that she’s here, he’s touching her, and she tastes almost like forgiveness, he pulls back to look at her face — her half-lidded eyes, her lips still parted and pink and waiting — before he moves to brush his mouth against her opposite cheek.

“My Rose.” Her hands don’t move, resting in her lap; she doesn’t lean into him, but she doesn’t lean away, either.

When the words slip off her tongue, they’re hardly louder than her breath: “My Doctor.”

The Doctor shifts forward until there’s no space between them, his nose nuzzling hers, their foreheads pressed together, and everything in his chest is hot and constricted and there are so many words he needs to say, they’re dense as a neutron star, too weighty to lift all at once.

But there are a few, hovering on the surface — the essence of it all, the central truth he knows about himself and everything that gives his life meaning.

“Rose Tyler, I love you.”

Before she has a chance to reply — _before she has a chance to let terrible silence settle between them because she doesn’t want to say the words in return_ — his mouth finds hers. It isn’t the needy kiss from last night, although need is certainly the Doctor’s defining characteristic in this moment. It’s a gentle, reverent press of sensitive flesh; the tender taking of her bottom lip into his mouth, the barest swipe of his tongue.

She opens her lips in response, but she still isn’t reaching for him, her fingers gripping her own thighs. He wants to pull her onto the floor, into his lap — he wants the softness of her skin against his hands, the feel of her ribs expanding and contracting as she breathes his air and they kiss until they’re both lightheaded.

But he won’t, not tonight, not if she doesn’t initiate it. Her tongue finds his and everything is slow and delicate, soft and honest, there’s nothing frantic between them right now.

Eventually she pulls away, pulls in a deep breath, her eyes still closed and lips swollen and pink because he’s been sucking on them.

“You’re tired,” he says. It’s half question, half statement.

“Yeah,” she replies, eyes blinking open, and it’s like she’s seeing him through a fog. “You?”

“Yeah.” He takes her hands from her lap, links fingers together. “C’mon then.”

She follows him to their bed.


	4. Chapter 4

  


The Doctor’s voice is reaching on-stage-and-the-mics-have-blown-out levels.

“Donna Noble, this is an award from the fans! Of course we’ll go!”

The cameraman is shifting nervously on his feet and checking his watch.

“Listen,” he says to Donna. “I’ve got three more acceptance videos to shoot today, if these two are going to the show, I should really be on my way.”

The Doctor nods furiously. “Yep, yep, we’ll be in attendance, you can leave, here!” He thrusts a half-eaten pack of biscuits from the table toward the cameraman. “Something for your trouble!”

The man takes the biscuits with a confused look, grabbing his gear and practically running out of the flat.

“You!” Donna says when the door closes, wheeling on the Doctor with a hand on her hip.

The Doctor ignores her and looks forlornly down at the table and Rose knows he’s wishing he hadn’t given away all the biscuits.

“You!” Donna says again.

The Doctor glances around the flat and at Rose before looking back at Donna and pointing at his chest. “Me?”

“Yes, you, you big dunce! I’d declined the invitation based on the delicate nature of your situation lately and now you decide you want to go? Two days before the show?”

The Doctor nods again. “Yep, no delicacy here, is there, Rose? We’ll be fine! And you almost let us get spoiled! That bloke was a minute away from telling us what award we were accepting for!”

Rose is pretty sure it’s best live album, a recording of a charity show they’d done before the island, because that’s the only thing they’re up for this time around, but she’s not about to burst the Doctor’s bubble, as it were.

Donna makes a frustrated sound and pulls out her phone, apparently ready to call in an extremely belated RSVP. She’s just unlocked the screen when she turns to Rose, a much gentler look than she’d been using with the Doctor on her face.

“Do you want to go, Rose?” And Donna puts a finger up to silence the Doctor when he opens his mouth to answer for her.

Rose is grateful for what Donna isn’t saying – that it was initially her call to decline the invitation. That three days after the Doctor had returned from France, Rose couldn’t imagine being ready to greet the public at his side in only a month’s time.

But now that the month has come and gone, and they’re just wrapping up a week filled with frantic snogs on the couch, and on beds, and once in the loo at a Tesco’s, Rose does feel ready.

She also feels ready to push the snogging beyond snogging. Well, beyond snogging and pawing and groping and grinding and, oh god, she’s blushing, isn’t she? Donna and the Doctor are waiting for her answer and she’s blushing.

“Yeah,” she says finally, trying to get control of the heat flooding her system. “I want to go. Go ahead and call it in.”

The Doctor lets out a whoop and skips off to the bedroom, announcing he’s going to pick out his outfit.

“Nothing velvet!” Rose calls after him.

Two days later, as the Doctor hustles downstairs to wait for the limo with her, it’s clear he hasn’t listened.

They step out the front door of the building and find a few paparazzi already staked out, waiting — flashbulbs pop and the Doctor is grinning and waving, his arm around her shoulder.

“Doctor! what’s it like to be back to civilization?”

“What did you miss most?”

“Did you eat the pilots to survive?”

Wilf is there, hustling them into the limo, and as they walk the Doctor points to the first photographer, “Brilliant!” — to the second, “Toilet paper is the apex of human ingenuity!” — to the third, with a wrinkled nose and a furrow between his eyebrows, “You, my good man, have seen too many movies!”

Rose slips into the limo and he bundles in after her, Wilf closing the door behind them and cutting off the voices outside. It’s just them right now — Donna’s flat is closer to the venue and the limo’s picking her up en route. The partition between Wilf and the back is still broken, has been for months — Rose is beginning to wonder how long, exactly, it takes to get parts in to fix that sort of thing, and why the Doctor stammers and won’t look her in the eye when she asks about it.

Which makes her think of the first time the partition broke, just as she’d come home from her first press tour apart from the Doctor, and what had happened on this very bench seat, on that particular day.

The Doctor looks good tonight — he always looks good, it’s like a magic trick, the more ridiculous the clothes, the better he pulls them off. Even when he dresses up for Halloween, clowns and bellhops and vampire slayers ( _oh god, the vampire slayer, with the leather pants and the faux piercings and she wonders if he’s still got those things hidden away in the closet somewhere_ ). Tonight’s no exception, crimson velvet blazer and jeans, hair a carefully controlled mess, and every inch of him a heartthrob, ready for the red carpet.

“You look stunning tonight,” he says, grinning at her. He reaches up and touches the draped fabric along the neckline of her blouse. “This is new.” His fingers trail down, following the curve of the collar, tracing across flesh and oh my, the blouse is low-cut, and his hand is warm.

She swats his hand away and scoots closer. “Now, no smearing anything before the ceremony, basic ground rule.”

“Oh, I dunno,” he replies, leaning down. “Seems pretty rock’n’roll to me, stepping out of the limo with a gorgeous bird’s lipstick all over my face. That’s me — rock’n’roll. And that’s you — gorgeous bird.”

Giggles bubble out of her, everything feels effervescent, she’s giddy with the idea that they’re doing this together — a semblance of their normal public life, stepping in front of the cameras, putting on a bit of a show. It’s nerves (because of how horribly their last public event together ended) and excitement (because he’s different, this new Doctor who came back from France).

And, as he slips the hand closest to her onto her thigh, far too high up to be anything but intentional – it’s arousal.

She covers his hand with her own and she was intending to stop it, really she was. Instead she’s pushing just the tiniest bit, not further down her leg, but around it, so that his fingers meet the seam on the inside of her trousers, curling into the material as he gives her a dark look.

She feels the blunt edges of his nails pressing into her leg and she wants to grab his hand and force it where she needs it. He’s leaning heavily against her, his shoulder pinned awkwardly between them and in one fluid movement he moves his hand from her thigh to wrap around her shoulders and he’s placed his other hand back on her leg, turning more fully into her.

“Is there any on your neck?” he says and the words are a whisper as his tongue traces the shell of her ear.

“What?” She’s dangerously close to squeaking.

“Make up,” he says, nipping at her earlobe. “Is there any make up on your neck?”

She shakes her head no, mindful of the potential squeaking, and then he latches his mouth to a point just under her jaw and she definitely squeaks.

“All this skin,” he says, and he nudging his nose into her neck, biting and licking and sucking. “Rose Tyler, did you plan this?”

She shakes her head again, the movement brushing her chin back and forth against the top of his head, the soft hair tickling her lips, only slightly tacky with product tonight and maybe he planned this.

“Are you sure?” He drags the word out and then licks down the line of her cleavage in the same slow rhythm. The arm around her shoulders has slipped and he’s bracing himself against the back of the seat with it now, trying to keep the angles right.

“Because you smell awfully good right _here_.” He nips at the swell of her breast and she can’t help it, her hand flies to back of his head, keeping him anchored to her chest.

The fingers on her thigh begin to move, curling so he can nudge a knuckle into her and she leans back further into the leather trying to scoot her lower body closer to him.

She should put a stop to this, she really should. She’s, ahem, met her own needs over the past few weeks and there’s no reason she should feel like this, wound up and ready to snap.

But the Doctor is kissing his way back her up her chest, pausing to run his tongue along the length of her collarbone and she doesn’t want to stop. She frees her own hand, the one that had gotten pinned between them when he’d shifted the hand on her thigh and it flops around uselessly before landing on the buckle of his belt.

She’s just gotten her fingers between the metal and leather when the car pulls to a stop and the door is flying open.

The Doctor jerks back into his own seat, back straight and stiff, and Rose is adjusting her top just as Donna peers in.

She’s wearing a dress with a wide, poofy skirt and she takes one look at them before making a displeased noise.

“I don’t know what you two think you’re getting up to, but I’m not cramming this into the front seat! Budge over and hands to yourself!” she says and she squints at them, like she’s trying to decide exactly how far gone they were. Her gaze drops to the Doctor’s lap and then quickly skitters away.

Wilf is behind her and helps her pack the rest of her dress into the limo before slamming the door and heading back to the driver’s seat.

A conspicuous silence settles over the car and it’s a mess of fabric, pointed looks, and heavy breathing all the way to the venue.

What seems like days later and they’re finally pulling up to the red carpet.

The Doctor steps out of the car first and there’s a shrill roar as the gathered crowd catches sight of him, all of them straining against the little metal barricades.

Rose is about to follow him out when Donna snags her elbow and whispers in her ear, low and grave, “It’s been a while since your last red carpet, and we both know what he’s normally like, but he’s been out of the public eye for a few months. He’s going to be worse.

“The public’s in a frenzy over your dramatic story, the rescue, his disappearance for a week after the last gig, everything. All this energy directed at him, and he’s gonna direct it right back — he’s gonna be as hyper as a puppy in a candyfloss factory.”

Rose can’t help the snort of laughter that comes out at the visual image, apt as it may be.

Donna gives her a stern look. “I know how you two are at your gigs — just because you’re in the wings doesn’t mean your invisible, sucking face between encores. Which is fine, that’s all well and good, but this. is. not. a. gig. This is an award show, and there are cameras everywhere, and it’s fine for him to be enthusiastic, but for the love of pete, and for the sake of damage control, help our puppy keep it at a reasonable level. Got it?”

Rose forces her mirth away from her face, flattens down the corners of her mouth, and salutes. “Yes, ma’am.”

“I’ll have a salute,” Donna says with a nod. “I’m right behind you, soldier.”

Rose steps out of the limo and is instantly blinded by a barrage of flashbulbs. She stumbles — these heels are horrible, no matter how cute they look, she should’ve chosen something more sensible. The Doctor’s there, catches her and steadies her, and the crowd cheers shrilly again at the sight of his arm around her waist.

She gets her footing and straightens out and here comes the rush — adrenaline and the force of hundreds of eyes on her, on both of them, as they walk toward the door.

Donna’s ushering them past most of the reporters (no comment, no comment, and Rose is grateful because she isn’t quite ready for a public interrogation about everything that has happened to both of them, not quite yet), and they’re nearly to the door when the Doctor lets go of her hand and bounds away, right to the crowd, to a mass of waving arms and autograph books.

Rose catches up a second later, plucks a Sharpie from his hand before the woman who gave it to him can tear open her blouse for an autographed bit of flesh, and tugs him toward someone with a CD case instead.

The Doctor will stay out here all night if he’s allowed, chatting happily with fans and signing autographs. Sometimes someone will ask him to draw something and he’ll spend whole minutes sketching out their tour bus or a self-portrait. He almost never looks as betrayed as he does when those turn up on eBay.

But tonight, Donna isn’t having it. Used to playing Bad Cop, she gives them only a few moments before she’s ushering them to finish the carpet and enter the Dorchester.

The Doctor’s hand is low on Rose’s back as he guides her through the hotel, definitely low enough that pictures of that will turn up tomorrow, she knows it, and there’s a mad moment where she wants to sod the whole thing and sprint to the bell desk to get them a room.

There’s some sort of cocktail reception before they’re to take their seats and since it’s VIP only, Donna seems to feel better about leaving them.

“There are only approved photogs in here, but they still have cameras,” Donna warns before ducking off to the bar where Rose can see Jack – the host for tonight – is perched on a stool and holding court.

The Doctor rubs his hand in a circle on Rose’s back, finding the gap between her shirt and trousers and working his thumb to trace against her skin.

“What did she mean, ‘They have cameras?’” The Doctor asks. “They always have cameras.”

Rose straightens her back, bumping the Doctor’s thumb away with the movement. “It means keep your hands to yourself or we’ll end up on the front page of the _Mail_.”

He snags two glasses with ice from a passing tray and shrugs. “Wouldn’t be the first time, won’t be the last.”

He holds the drinks up to the light, one is amber colored, the other clear with a lime, “Which do you want?”

Rose shakes her head at him, but smiles in spite of herself. “I’m certain those were on their way to the people that ordered them, Doctor.”

He considers the glasses in his hands, holding the darker one up next to her face before handing it to her. “Well, this one matches your eyes, that’s a far better claim than ordering them. Ours now!”

The gulp he takes of the clear one is large and when he pulls the drink back his grin is wide. “Oooh, gin!” And he wipes a hand over his mouth.

“Like a puppy with sugar,” Rose mutters under her breath before taking a sip of her drink – whiskey, it tastes like.

She scans the room from the Doctor’s side, standing close enough to smell him, sweat and hair product and the expensive cologne her mother had bought him – “Some gift, Jackie! Implying I smell, what ghastly manners, honestly!”

(He’s already bought a second bottle, Rose found it in the bathroom cupboard months ago, not convinced for a second when he claimed it was the original gift and that he wouldn’t be caught dead in it. Her mum likes to make a big show of sniffing him, just to prove a point. )

There are plenty of people to talk to, but no one she necessarily wants to talk to and she sips at her drink absentmindedly.

In a matter of seconds, Rose realizes the grave error she’s made, not finding someone to talk to. Because someone finds them.

“Cassandra!” the Doctor says, and he’s smiling. But as she sidles closer, blond curls bouncing and silver dress nearly identical to the one Rose used to wear onstage during her act, his nose wrinkles and he takes another sip of his gin. “They let anybody in here, do they?”

She laughs, and it’s like the yip of an irritating little dog. Her eyes fix on Rose. “I suppose they do.”

Rose isn’t going to rise to the bait — doesn’t matter if this posh brat doesn’t like the fact that Rose came from an estate and has outsold her every record. Or, y’know, writes her own songs. Or is the one sleeping in the Doctor’s arms every night.

Rose is moving without thinking, her shoulder tucked under the Doctor’s arm and her hand stroking his neck, fingertips playing with that one mismatched earlobe of his. It’s blatantly possessive, the way she’s cleaved to his side.

“Well, they’ve got to fill seats, I suppose,” Rose says. “Y’know, with people who aren’t nominated this year.”

“They always invite past winners,” Cassandra replies with a smirk. “The award you’re getting this year? I got it last year. Which means I’ll be handing you the trophy onstage.”

Before things get any worse, one of the roving photographers steps in, lifting his camera and pointing it at them. “Hey there, one for the record!”

Cassandra ooches in and they all plaster grins on their faces. Cassandra angles her body toward the Doctor, hip bumping his, turning what she no doubt considers her good sidetoward the camera. The flash goes off six times before the photographer leaves.

Cassandra opens her mouth again, but the Doctor beats her to it. “Oh, look, it’s Marcus Mumford,” he says, gesturing across the room with his half-empty glass of gin. “He’s not still seeing — what’s her name? Carey something-or-another? The one with the dimples and blond hair, she makes the movies. Don’t see her around tonight. Is he here stag?”

Just like that, Cassandra’s off like a shot.

“Thanks,” Rose says through her teeth, taking a long sip from her whisky — it’s good stuff, smooth, but she still feels the back of her throat tighten up after the swallow. She leans into the Doctor a bit, waiting for the sensation to pass.

His thumb has found that spot again, that tiny exposed piece of skin above the waist of her trousers. “After the things she said about you in those interviews, I’d be happy to take away her moisturizers and makeup, and see how fast she turns into a raisin. No heart, that one. Dry as a bone in here.” He taps his chest.

She turns her head up toward him, rests her chin on his arm. “She’s lonely, and that makes people desperate.”

“Hmph.” He puts his drink down on the nearest table. “Do you suppose there’s going to be dancing? I could do with a bit of that.”

Rose laughs, “Oh, yes, of course, Doctor, these are exactly the type of people looking to wrinkle their outfits and sweat off their make up not even an hour before cameras will be pointed at them. Not high maintenance at all, this lot.”

The Doctor makes a face and picks his gin back up, draining it in one steady gulp. Rose watches his throat muscles work the liquid down and clutches at her own drink a little tighter.

When he’s finished, he replaces his glass on the table and snags hers from her hand to place next to it.

“Well,” he says. “We’ll just have to find some other way to pass the time then,” and the look he gives her is a particular kind of devastating, one that makes her toes curl inside her already too-tight shoes.

“Doctor,” she says again, low and warning.

“Why, Rose Tyler, what are you implying? I’m just on the hunt for a vending machine is all, could do with a candy bar before I’ve got to sit for hours and hours.”

She’s about to protest – he doesn’t need actual sugar – but her eyes are already scanning the lobby beyond the bar. Traipsing around one of London’s poshest hotels on a bit of an adventure, however mundane, seems like a far better way to spend half an hour than making conversation with the dirty elite of Britain’s music industry.

“All right,” she says instead. “But we’re in our seats in 20 minutes, candy bar or not. I don’t want Donna sending the dogs after us.”

The Doctor’s grin is gleeful as he tugs her away from the dimly lit bar and into the brighter lights of the lobby.

“Where shall we start?” he says, but he’s already pulling her down a hallway. The pace he’s setting is fast and she’s clearly underestimated just how much he wants some chocolate.

“Hold up,” she says and puts a hand on his arm to steady herself when he stops. She toes off her heels and picks them up by the straps. “Lead on!”

He glances at her shoes in her hand. “Barefoot in the Dorchester! Sounds like a song! Remind me to write that one that later!”

She laughs and they’re back on the move.

It’s not much of an adventure, as their adventures usually go, but it feels nice all the same, following the Doctor through the twists and turns of the hotel, dodging photographers and hotel guests.

He’s just found a door, covered, inexplicably, in birds and trees, when a photographer finally catches up to them long enough to snap a picture.

She’s feeling just giddy enough, full up on the feeling of the Doctor by her side and a little madness in their hearts, to give the bloke a cheeky smile before they’re ducking through the door.

It’s just a meeting room, chairs in rows facing the front and a long wooden table stretching along the back wall.

There’s a small bowl of chocolate mints in the middle of the table, next to a half-full pitcher of water and clearly the room hasn’t been cleaned from the day’s conference yet.

The Doctor bounds over to the table, stuffing his pockets with the candy before checking his watch and turning to Rose.

“What do you think? Seven minutes to spare! Not bad, not bad at all.” He leans back to the bowl and plucks out the last candy, unwrapping it swiftly and biting it in half.

He extends his arm and the rest of the candy to Rose and she watches his eyes as she leans in to pluck it from his fingers with her teeth.

“Seven minutes, you said?” She lets the chocolate melt on her tongue a bit before pushing it against the roof of her mouth, the mint flavor taking over as she chews.

“Yep, seven minutes. And as far as I’m concerned, this conference room is heaven.”

Rose drops her shoes to the ground, advancing on the Doctor.

“Seven minutes in heaven, Doctor? Wouldn’t have you picked you for the type.”

This is for the Doctor’s sake, really. Not because he looks so devastating in that outfit, or because of the freckles smattered across his cheeks, or the way his long fingers have been absently strumming at invisible strings on his own thigh the last few minutes.

Certainly not because Rose is ignoring Donna’s voice in her head, shoving away warnings about puppies and candyfloss, and ignoring the realization that Rose is the candyfloss in this situation, because the look in the Doctor’s eyes, that’s certainly hunger.

She slips her arm around his shoulders, bumping her hips into his, and her other arm snakes under his velvet jacket. He’s incredibly warm and already a bit sweaty, wearing velvet mid-summer wasn’t the best move, and suddenly all Rose can think about is taking the jacket off of him.

She’s got something clever to say, but the minute she opens her mouth, he snatches the words off her tongue with his own. Leans her backward with the force of his kiss, minty chocolate and gin and she responds automatically, arching into him. One hand fists into his hair, the other scratching across the warm, damp fabric of his oxford under his jacket.

He pulls back suddenly, arms still around her waist, and surveys her face. He reaches up, using the pad of his index finger to wipe at the corner of her mouth. “I seem to have .. ah … smudged you.”

“I seem to … ah” — she rocks her hips into his — “not be worried about it at the moment.”

“Good.” He’s on her again, one hand pressed into the small of her back and the other trailing up the side of her torso, tickling over her ribs to the neckline of her shirt again, seeking skin.

Sucking her bottom lip, he pulls away a fraction, his tongue swiping from one end to the other before he lets it go and grins at her. “Four minutes,” he says, eyebrows wiggling.

In a quick movement he’s at her neck, kissing and licking, trailing his way down to the hollow of her throat and she holds on for dear life, because if she lets go she’s going to end up on the floor, and she won’t have the self-control to stop him if he gets her horizontal right now.

Of course, the Doctor is a particularly clever man, and he usually works out ways to make her a quivering mess even when she’s on her feet.

“Need this. Need you.” She’s shocked to hear her own voice, wonders when she opened her mouth.

“Mmph,” he replies against her skin, already foraying into her cleavage with little kisses, nuzzling into the valley between her breasts. “Phnee fminins.” That one takes her a second before she realizes he’s still counting down.

Every cell in her body is buzzing. He’s got her bent over so she’s lost her grip on his back and she holds onto his head with both hands, heedless of the chaotic mess she’s making of his hair. He’s got a tight grip on her waist, one hand spread across her bum, and she gives up trying to balance on her own, rests her weight on the thigh he’s driven between her legs. Oh. There it is, friction — she’s pulling on his hair so hard, she’s surprised he hasn’t yelped yet.

“Doctor.” It’s a plea, half-groaned as he uses one hand to hitch her up higher on his thigh, his mouth still working at her exposed flesh. She has to keep her head, can’t get lost right here, not when there’s a chance of someone walking into this room at any moment. “Doctor, when we get home, yeah? I’d like, when we get home, to —”

“Fwoo fminins,” he interrupts, hips moving, and she’s acutely aware of the fact that she’s going to spend the rest of this award ceremony in a quivering puddle of need.

“I want you,” she says, pulling at his head, trying to breathe. “I want you.”

His tongue stops suddenly, his body stills.

He takes a deep breath and lets it out, still bent over her and she can feel the warmth of it on her skin.

When he pulls back, his face is flushed and his hair is a riot, but his eyes are clear and serious. A litany of emotions cycle through in his expressions and she’s trying to keep up, trying to name them all, when he finally speaks.

“Me, too, Rose, oh god, me, too.” His voice is tight, like he’s holding something back and she wants to press it, but it’s not the time.

She clears her throat and straightens her shirt instead.

“I’m just going to run to the loo and,” she gestures at her face, “reapply. I’ll meet you at the table.”

He nods and bends down to drop a kiss on her forehead, lingering and chaste, before taking her hand and tugging her from the room.

She waves at him as she breaks away in the lobby and ducks into the bathroom with an audible sigh.

It’s nearly empty, just a few hotel guests that seem to recognize her, but thankfully don’t say anything. There’s bound to be a private bathroom near the VIP area, but the chances are much higher that no one will be so polite in there.

She rifles through her purse, pulling out make up and applying it without thinking. Her mind is elsewhere – on how she’d felt so out of control in that meeting room, how she’s felt a little bit out of control for months. Rose Tyler isn’t the type to sit idly by while things happen to her and yet somehow that feels like all she’s been doing lately.

Tonight though, after the awards and the cameras and the limo ride home, she intends to lose control because she wants to.

And she’s going to pull the Doctor right along with her.

Whatever talking there’s still left to do (and it doesn’t feel like much, if she’s honest – he’s been more forthright than she’s ever seen him and now it’s just a matter of crossing bridges when they come to them, the healing process in real time) will just have to wait.

With a final glance at her reflection, she makes her way out of the bathroom and into the ceremony.

The Doctor’s already seated, but makes a show of standing when she sits down. An older couple she doesn’t recognize at the table next to them coos at the gesture, but she glances at the Doctor and it’s just as she expected – he’s looking down her blouse.

She nudges him with her knee when they’re both seated and his hand snakes out under the table, spanning her thigh and keeping her pressed against him. She had almost worn a skirt tonight and as his fingers trace patterns on her trousers, she wishes she had.

They spend the ceremony sitting closer together than they should — his arm around her shoulder and her hand resting on his leg. His fingers are fiddling with the extra fabric cascading off her neckline, and she’s well aware that the cameras are lingering on them anytime there’s a cut to the audience.

Rose can’t stop grinning.

Donna’s beyond caring about how touchy-feely they are in front of the camera, she’s absorbed in watching Jack host the affair, and it is quite the show.

Jack is a force of nature contained in a human suit, the sheer level of energy and enthusiasm he brings to even the most mundane mechanical aspects of the evening. Coming onstage after a particularly tedious acceptance speech, he breaks into a moonwalk, executed flawlessly all the way to the podium. Sometimes when he seems to get bored with the pap served up by the teleprompter, he breaks into song, turning dry banter into a spontaneous musical performance.

When it’s nearly time for their category, Rose turns her head sideways, lips brushing against the Doctor’s sideburn. “Has he always been like this?”

The Doctor laughs, running his tongue along his lip. “Once, in art history class during our unit on Michelangelo, the instructor stepped out of the room for five minutes. By the time he got back, Jack had talked the girls in the class into sculpting their own David and was modeling for them. Nude.”

Rose dissolves into giggles, and when their category is called, she’s still laughing, collapsed against the Doctor’s side. Donna catches sight of them canoodling on the enormous television screens beside the stage, rolls her eyes and drains the rest of her martini before flagging down the waiter for another one.

Cassandra’s onstage with Jack, opening an envelope, and Rose doesn’t even hear their names being called, but the Doctor’s pulling her by the hand as he bounds to his feet and up the steps, right to the podium.

“This is an honor,” he says, holding up the award, which is an oddly-shaped cascade of stars. “An honor, and a prickly one at that” — he shifts the trophy around, like it’s poking him — “good thing they didn’t go with sharp edges on these things. A bit pointy. An award made of knives, now there’s an idea, that would be brilliant, actually. Could put it in the kitchen, use it to chop fruit and veg — oof” Rose nudges him with her elbow and he blinks, draws his attention back to the audience, which earns a few laughs. “Even if we can’t chop anything with this, it will sit in a place of honor in our flat. Won’t it, Rose?”

She takes the metal thing from his hands and hefts it into the air. “Thank you so much! This is brilliant!”

Without warning, grinning like a madman, the Doctor seizes her face in both his hands, and for a stomach-dropping moment she’s convinced he’s going to snog her senseless right here and now on live television.

Instead he leans in, tips his head down, and plants the gentlest of kisses on her cheek. “I owe this — I owe everything — to my muse, Rose Tyler. I’d be lost without her.” He turns to the audience. “That’s both literally and figuratively.”

There’s cheering, and Jack’s saying something, and they’re back at the table in a rush of orchestral music. She’s still got hold of the trophy and the Doctor plucks it out of her hands, sets it on the table in front of them, and she leans into him again as he puts his arm around her shoulders.

Her hand slips off the edge of the table, settles onto his thigh, just under the tablecloth where no one can see.

It’s hardly audible, the click in his throat; his facial expression stays remarkably smooth. Working slowly, she kneads her way closer to his inseam. He shifts in his chair, slouching down, his long legs opening just a little.

The Doctor still isn’t looking at her, his attention riveted to what’s happening onstage. She only lets herself glance at him once, at his profile, his bangs wilted down across his forehead in the heat, the tight line of his jaw and the way the muscles in his neck are tensed as her fingers finally reach the inside of his thigh.

He can’t respond in kind — his arm’s still resting across the back of her chair, and she’s not going to make room between them for it, anyway. She likes this — being able to touch him while he can’t touch her, seeing what it does to him. He squeezes the curve of her shoulder, fingernails digging into her blouse as her hand inches upward on his leg.

They’re watching a musical number, something elaborately choreographed with a few pyrotechnics, and just as she pushes her palm into his crotch, both ends of the stage flare to life with a whoosh. The ruckus covers the noise that comes from the back of the Doctor’s throat — needy, guttural, and definitely not quite in control.

Rose spends the rest of the ceremony doing everything within her power to make him recreate that noise — she needs to hear it again, maybe along with her own name coming from his lips. She needs it so badly, she can hardly breathe.

He never looks at her, although it’s more than obvious that he’s noticed what she’s doing, parts of his body that he has little control over responding quite gratifyingly, even if the rest of him doesn’t.

When the ceremony’s over, Rose winks at him and hops up, grabbing Donna by the arm. “Come with me to the ladies’ room, would you? We’ll meet the Doctor in the limo. Is that all right?”

“S’fine,” he says, and it’s practically a squeak. He clears his throat, lowers his voice. “S’fine.”

They leave him sitting at the table.

The ladies’ room is, predictably, a zoo, swarms of primping women crowd every mirror and Rose and Donna take one look at the crowd and turn right around.  
“I’ll use the loo at Jack’s,” Donna says, eyeing the queue forming to get in the door distastefully. “Are you sure you still want to drop me off?”

Rose is too busy navigating the cramped lobby to hear Donna initially and she repeats herself.

“Of course!” Rose says, forcing down the answer she wants to give – that she doesn’t want to drop her off at all anymore, that without Donna in the limo, one or both of them could’ve gotten off before they even get back to the flat. But it’s her mother’s voice, harking about manners, that forces that away. “Why wouldn’t we want to?”

Rose sees Donna roll her eyes as they dart through a clearing in the crowd and out the door.

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe because you couldn’t keep your hands off his trousers on national television and he was seconds away from snogging you on stage.” Donna’s voice is sarcastic, but Rose is pleased – she hadn’t misread the stage kiss then.

“Donna, it’ll be fine, really. We might even swing by Jack’s party ourselves, once I stop home and change my shoes.”

They will not be stopping by his party, or any party.

Donna looks horrified. “No, no, no, there’s already enough photos of you two in compromising positions tonight. The last thing I need to deal with come tomorrow morning, on top of all that, is whatever you’d get up to at Jack’s.”

Rose laughs, “I have no idea what you’re talking about. But you should know for yourself – he’s got cameras mounted in every room. The Doctor helped install them.”

Donna winks as they finally reach the limo. “Oh, I know.”

The Doctor opens the door from the inside, pushing it out and grinning widely at them in the dim overhead light of the interior. They pile in, Donna conspicuously sitting between them and Rose thinks again of her mother. She toes her heels off once more and tries to remember how far away Jack lives.

Wilf is just maneuvering the car through traffic and onto the road when the Doctor gets his phone out of his jacket pocket and, with barely a glance up, begins typing away.

Rose is certain he’s playing any number of those stupid games he keeps getting addicted to (things had gotten awfully tense late last year when a Words with Friends cheating scandal had rocked their road crew), but her own phone vibrates in her purse a moment later. It’s a text from the Doctor:

_**Places I’m going to bury my face tonight:** _

__**a.) Your Neck  
** b.) Your Chest  
c.) Between Your Legs 

She drops the phone.

Donna reaches to help pick it up and Rose scrambles to grab it instead, frantically waving Donna off.

The Doctor barely even glances their way and Rose’s phone vibrates again in her hand:

_**The answer is D! All of the above!** _

She clutches her phone tightly in her fingers, shooting daggers at the Doctor across Donna. He grins brightly at her in return and his gaze darkens as she licks her lips.

She puts her phone aside and makes a show of stretching, arms up and over her head before running her hands down her front and smoothing her shirt over her breasts. She lingers just long enough for the Doctor to cough and then she’s grabbing her phone again, typing out a reply.

_**Your trousers look awfully tight over there. Anything I can give you a hand with?** _

She sends it and waits a beat before zipping through another message:

_**Or maybe you’d prefer my mouth?** _

The Doctor’s coughing is back, this time complete with a flushed face.  
Donna’s eyes pinball between the two of them and Rose’s innocent expression is so extreme she’s practically whistling.

“Whatever this is,” and Donna waves a hand back and forth between them. “It can wait until I’m out of the car.”

The Doctor looks shocked at the admonishment and Rose almost laughs, but stutters out an apology instead.

They’re just reaching Jack’s place when her phone lights up again.

_**Your mouth. Definitely your mouth.** _

Rose has never seen Donna move faster, she’s got her dress balled up in her fists and she practically executes a military roll to get out of the limo while it’s still moving.

They wave goodbye and the Doctor’s getting ready to pull the door closed when Donna gets in a parting shot, in full view of all the revelers trooping up Jack’s driveway.

“Wear a condom!” and Donna’s laugh is loud as the Doctor finally closes the car door.

It’s quiet in the limo for several long moments, Rose feeling suddenly shy over how obvious the whole evening had been, how much she wants this.

The car is back on the road before the silence is finally broken.

“Rose,” the Doctor says. “If you don’t want this…” And he’s still safely tucked up by the door, hand gripping the handle.

“I want this,” she answers and she meets his eye only briefly before taking in the picture he presents, shirt unbuttoned just one too many buttons and the hollow of his throat is damp with sweat. His blazer is undone, his shirt untucked and she fixates on the glint of his belt buckle, trying to decide if undoing it with her teeth would be sexy or silly.

Her hand is moving in slow motion, beckoning him closer to her on the seat and he slides over at the same pace, as if she’s going to change her mind.

She tilts her head away from him, neck arching. “Weren’t you going to do something with your face? Bury it some place, was it?”

He’s on her in an instant, half-standing to work a knee between her legs and then bracing his weight on it as he leans in to latch on to her skin. His movements are surprisingly controlled, long, slow laps of his tongue against her neck, tiny nips with his teeth and lips that make her arch further into him.

Her hand slips to the back of his head, fingers knotting into his hair, as her other hand moves to his bum, slipping into the back pocket of his jeans and squeezing.

It’s a weird split – her moving frantically, fast forward motion and needy, while the Doctor takes his time. He’s working his way down her chest, tongue tracing a meandering path and hand kneading at the back of her neck before he finally moves up to kiss her properly.

She’s just trying to figure out where his other hand is, trying to find something to focus on that isn’t the arousal burning through her system, when the missing hand finds its way to her breast. His fingers, long and thin, span the material of her blouse, brushing against skin as he paces his movements with the lapping of his tongue against hers and the hand still working at her neck.

She grips him tighter, squeezing her legs together around his thigh and trying to recreate the friction she’d had only briefly in the conference room.

With a low noise that tumbles straight to her stomach, the Doctor shifts them so she’s almost completely sideways and reclined on the seat. He repositions his knee between her legs, still keeping one foot braced on the ground and there’s just enough space between them for her to get a hand to the front of his trousers. He’s hard and straining behind the zip and it can’t be comfortable, all this getting worked up and backing off they’ve been doing, but he’s so calm. His eyes forward as she’d palmed him during the ceremony, and even now as he’s working a hand up her shirt, fitting his fingers between her bra and skin.

When his hips finally pump into her hand, she grins with a feeling like triumph.  
She slips her hands back up to his shoulders, curling into his jacket as she steadies a leg on the ground to try and switch their positions.

He shakes his head.

“Wanna make it home,” he pants and when she gets a good look at him in a passing streetlight, his pupils are blown wide.

She nods, taking in a shaky breath and trying again to move him. This time he sits up, pulling her with him and grasping her hand.

After a few moments, he reaches over and presses the button to open the sunroof and they spend the rest of the ride in silence, holding hands with their heads tipped up, watching the stars.

When they finally arrive, Wilf doesn’t even have time to get out of the car. The Doctor, generally impatient to exit a vehicle under normal circumstances, seems to have found Rose’s sense of urgency and he’s got them out of the limo and up the front steps to the building before Rose can even grab her shoes.

“My heels,” she says, but her heart isn’t in it.

“They’ll be there tomorrow,” he says and he’s leading her toward the elevator.

He presses at the button several times in rapid fire, bouncing on his toes before the doors finally open.

They stay on opposite sides of the lift, everything hanging like a promise between them. She remembers when she was young, nights spent driving to a secluded spot, just for some snogging.

It’s like that, but amplified a thousand times, there’s so much intent and hope and heat and they will make it to the bed, she swears to herself right there.

When the elevator finally reaches their floor, the Doctor gestures for her to exit first, snagging her hand and twining their fingers as she passes him.

Their feet echo like drumbeats down the hallway and when they get to their door, the Doctor turns on her with a gentle smile.

“I love you, Rose Tyler,” he says, just like that, no preamble, nothing, and even if he says it a thousand times a day from now on, she’ll never get used to it.

“I love you, Doctor,” she says.

And then his smile turns to something else entirely, something vulgar and grinning and he’s got the key in the lock and the door open before she can even process it.

He spins on her once they’re through the doorway, pinning her against the wall and arching his hips into hers. It’s such a similar position to the one in the hotel after they’d rescued him that her mind can’t help but make the comparison, flying through the recognition of how far they’ve come and this one last step to go.

He releases her without kissing her, grabbing both of her hands and walking backward through the flat, toeing his shoes off and tugging her along as he navigates the walls and the furniture and more than a few pairs of trainers.

The door to their bedroom is nearly shut and he kicks out behind himself to open it, wincing when it swings hard into the wall.

“Sorry,” he says and she grins at him.

He releases her hands then, walking with measured steps across the room to turn on the lamp on her bedside table. It comes on slowly, some energy-saving thing he’d installed last year and she’s made her way to stand in front of him before it’s glowing at full brightness.

There’s a hesitancy in his face that she finds endearing, something to do with nerves and love and restarts, and when she leans up to kiss him, she keeps her eyes open for an extra moment, long enough to see the slow, reverent way he closes his and tips his head to hers.

She moves him gently, tongue kneading alongside his as she spins him until his back is to the bed. Then she pulls away and gives him a shove, tongue pressing against her teeth with a look that feels like sin as his back bounces down onto the mattress.

The mood shifts and they both sense it. He’s pulling her toward him by the hips and she comes willingly, kneeling with her knees braced on either side of his hips and when his hand snakes up to cup her breast, she stops it, raising it above his head and pinning him by the wrist to the sheets.

His eyebrows arch and he bucks his hips up into her, but she’s braced too far above him for any real contact. Instead she kisses him, open mouths and tongues and then she moves her other hand between them, undoing his belt and the button of his jeans before pressing down on him with the heel of her palm.

The noise he makes is loud, a breathy, groaning thing and she scrambles to get her fingers on his zipper, sliding it open carefully and he shifts his hips this way and that, trying to get to her hand and avoid any pinching.

Once his zip is down and the Doctor’s breathing a sigh of relief she leans back, releasing his wrist with a pointed look – he’s not to move. Then she crosses her arms and grasps the bottom of her shirt, pulling it up and over her head and tossing it away as the Doctor’s breathing grows heavier beneath her.

He seems to realize he has another hand at the same time she does and before she can stop that one, too, he’s got it between her legs, pressing into her, all awkward angles and lack of finesse.

It feels amazing.

She scrambles off of him quickly, trying to avoid rutting herself against his hand until some of this fucking pressure is relieved, and she stands on the mattress to the side of him, head nearly brushing the ceiling as she drops her trousers to her feet.

He holds the material down and steadies her ankles one at a time while she steps out of them and it’s such a small thing, but it’s familiar, and it’s a flood of relief as she remembers they have, in fact, done this before.

Before she can sit down, he’s shimmying out of his own trousers and socks, following her lead and leaving his boxer briefs on.

It’s a bit ridiculous, he’s in his underwear, but still in his jacket and shirt, and she grins at him as he leans up and struggles to get out of them, too. She kneels beside him when he gets tangled up in the sleeves and together they work to free him of the clothes.

When they’re done, he grabs her by the waist, fingers curling into her hip as he pulls her down and pins her beneath him.

He fits himself between her hips and all the promises of his mouth, and hers, fly out the window. Plenty of time for all that later, she decides, wrapping her legs around his waist and dragging him into her. He sets a rhythm and he’s so hard it almost hurts, the way they’re hampered by the thin material between them, unable to match up properly.

She claws at his skin, fingers scrambling up to his head to angle his mouth to hers before curling back into the muscles of his back. His lips are slanted open across hers, tongues twining and he’s tugging at the straps of her bra from the side, trying to free her breasts but apparently unwilling to lift up to get at the clasp.

His thrusts slow into a grind, so he’s pressing right up against her, rubbing with enough friction that’s she’s almost there and, oh fuck, she’s missed this.

She pulls him up by the hair, not missing the way that makes him buck into her sharply and then she’s reaching behind herself to undo her bra. He’s pulling at the material by the cups, movements graceless and rushed. She stills his hand and looks pointedly down at his boxer briefs and the grin he gives her nearly knocks her back to the mattress.

“Rose Tyler, you are brilliant.” He hops off the bed and shucks his pants, snagging hers and dragging them down before repositioning himself.

He works his hand between them and drags a finger up before circling a few times and she’s ready, she’s ready –

“I’m ready,” she says.

And he moves his hand back to position himself. There’s just the slightest bit of resistance and then he’s there and they both groan.

“Fuck, Rose,” and he says it on a breath exhaled into her cheek.

Her hands grip him from behind and she’s arching underneath him, needing him to move, now now now.

It’s rushed, gasps and yes and long, sharp thrusts and her eyes slam shut with the feel of it as she bites into his shoulder to keep from crying out.

She’s been waiting for this for hours and weeks and when he loops his arm under her leg, hitching it up closer to her chest, it changes the angle just enough that she gives up on keeping quiet, growling every thought that crosses her mind into his ear while he pants out his own, infinitely more colorful but no less filthy, above her.

And then without warning, she’s falling, nails digging into the skin of his back and teeth marking the join of his neck and shoulder.

He tumbles right behind her, body tense except for where he’s pulsing inside of her.

She pulls his weight down on top of her, keeping him there with her arms and legs locked tight around him.

He kisses absentmindedly at her neck, chuckling softly at the way it makes her twitch around him.

A few long moments later and he’s lifting himself off of her, padding into the hallway and the guest bathroom.

She feels boneless and sparking, like she could use a good stretch and some sleep and the smell of the Doctor as he curls himself around her.

She slithers off the bed and makes her way to the en suite. She finishes before he does, tugging a clean pair of knickers on before sliding under the covers.

When he returns, he grabs himself a pair of boxer briefs from the dresser and snaps off the light near her head, stopping to kiss her sweetly on the mouth and then on the forehead before crawling onto the bed from her side and climbing over her.

She rolls to face him, nudging into him until she can rest her head on his chest as his arm curls around her back.

It’s only when he speaks just as she’s falling asleep that she realizes they haven’t said anything in several minutes.

“Good night, Rose Tyler,” he says.

She presses a kiss to his chest.

“Good night, Doctor.”

Six months later, “Barefoot at the Dorchester” hits number one on the charts and the Doctor hangs the certificate right above their bed.


End file.
